” “In the present case,” Drummond remarked, glancing across the room, “Cheveney wouldn’t permit it. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. Here's a nosegay for you, my love," she continued, opening her basket, and presenting a fragrant bunch of flowers to Winifred, "if your mother will allow me to give it you.
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